


The Portal (Sunlight), 1894

by hansbekhart



Series: Portrait of the Soldier as a Young Man [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Art History, Gay New York, Jewish Bucky Barnes, M/M, New York Art Scene, Pre-War, Public Blow Jobs, Public Sex, art snobbery, impressionism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-25 11:32:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3808831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hansbekhart/pseuds/hansbekhart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He considers the ancient world - a whole wing of plaster cast replicas, tiny cities in miniature, staggering Greek gods in shining white.  But that's all tangled up in memory of school trips (he and Steve of a height, their arms flung over each other's shoulders, standing with their noses up against the glass as Bucky whispers stories about the tiny figures on the other side), and he's hardly a child anymore. </p><p>-<br/><a href="http://hansbekhart.tumblr.com/post/115945224913/period-typical-homoeroticism-the-saga-of-cute">AKA, The Saga of Cute Twink Bucky</a>, and his earnest dive into the bourgeois Manhattan gay scene, circa 1937.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Portal (Sunlight), 1894

  
  
Bucky takes a step forward. The sole of his shoe clicks faintly on the floor. He takes a step backwards, just to hear the noise again.

"Your coat, sir?" says a voice behind him, and he jumps.

"Oh -" he says, and winces a little when it comes out louder than he means it, loud enough in the empty, silent space. "Sure, thanks."

The guard accepts the coat, Michael's already slung over his arm, and vanishes with them in the direction of coat check. It's cool in the Great Hall and a little dim, the sun busy rising on the other side of Central Park.

"What do you think?" Michael asks in an undertone, but by the look on his face he already knows the answer. Bucky grins at him, and spins in a little circle, neat as if he were in a dance hall.

"Mr Bech!" comes a pleased voice from the top of the broad stairs. "How wonderful to see you."

Tip tap tip comes the man down the steps, the brightly shining tips of his shoes ticking on each one. He's a small man, with a neat mustache and a dull looking suit, and he shakes Michael's hands with what looks like genuine pleasure. 

"Mr Greene," Michael says, "it's so nice to see you again. Thank you for letting me stop by, so early in the morning." Bucky hides his grin in his fist. How sedate he sounds, as if he were dropping by a neighbor's to borrow a bit of sugar, instead of - 

"Well," Mr Greene answers, modestly. "The museum is always happy to grant a favor to good friends."

"A student of mine," Michael says, meaning Bucky, who steps forward to have his hand shaken as well, although with slightly less enthusiasm. "He'd expressed some interest to me about visiting. Born and raised in Brooklyn, and hasn't been here for nearly ten years - can you imagine?"

Mr Greene's eyes flicker over Bucky, head to toe, but he sounds sincere enough when he says, "A tragedy, sir. One I'm happy to help rectify." He claps his hands, beaming. "Well! You know the rules. The museum will open at 10, but it's yours until then."

He vanishes back up the steps, and they're left as alone as Bucky has ever been in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He feels the early hour over his whole body. His stomach grumbles, full of rich, buttery pastries from the bakery underneath Michael's building and the sweet coffee they'd had, poured out from a silver set. He cranes his neck back until it twinges a little, staring up and up and up.

"So how does a teacher pull something like this off?" Bucky asks. He pitches his voice low so it won't carry to the guards, gathered in a clump around coat check, and also so he can flirt a little with it.

"Well, NYU has traditionally had a very close relationship with the Met," Michael says, and then admits, "of course, it helps that my family has given quite a lot of money to them over the past few decades." 

He gazes at Bucky, just the faintest smile on his face. It's only been a few weeks since Bucky met him at the Lafayette, sitting resplendently nude in one of the cooling rooms. It had only been Bucky's second time at a bathhouse, but he'd known enough to come over and sit on Michael's knee. It had been a pleasant surprise to be asked to dinner afterwards, and to the theater, and to Michael's beautiful apartment on 79th and Madison (unshared and a room just for his books to boot, an almost unimaginable luxury), and now - 

"Well?" Michael asks. "You heard Mr Green. The museum is ours, for the next two hours. Where would you like to go?"

He considers the ancient world - a whole wing of plaster cast replicas, tiny cities in miniature, staggering Greek gods in shining white. But that's all tangled up in memory of school trips (he and Steve of a height, their arms flung over each other's shoulders, standing with their noses up against the glass as Bucky whispers stories about the tiny figures on the other side), and he's hardly a child anymore. 

"European painters," he says, and Michael smiles.

"Excellent," he says, and leads the way.

They wander through empty gallery after empty gallery. He can feel Michael's eyes on him, warm and affectionate, watching Bucky look at the art more than he's looking himself. 

It's a strange feeling, to be all alone in the museum. Steve would cream his shorts at the chance of it, no matter how he turned his nose up at the _Establishment_ these days, the capital letter all but spoken aloud - no one crowding them, no tourists rushing by anything that's not a mummy, no screaming kiddies. Their heels tap tap along the marble floor, echoing up along the colunnades, falling away without answer. He feels adrift, even though Michael keeps up a running commentary about this or that as they walk along - painting techniques and allegories and political jokes. They circle each other throughout the silent space, Michael tugging him towards particular paintings, Bucky drifting off towards the next. 

So different from how he used to encounter art, dragging along behind Steve from smokey, makeshift gallery to greasy walk up apartment, each of them filled to the brim with the disaffected and artistic. But it's been awhile since Steve's brought him to any shows, or to meet the new friends that keep him so busy.

They've wandered into a room full of paintings markedly different than the few galleries before it. The colors are lighter and more vivid, and there's not a portrait among them. Bucky walks to the center - spins in a slow circle - and moves closer when one catches his eye. _Rouen Cathedral_ , the little brass plaque informs him.

They stand for a moment in considering silence. "I like this one," Bucky says, finally. 

Michael smiles at him, and says, "you have exquisite taste, my darling. Why do you like it?"

"It reminds me of -" Bucky says, and hesitates. "It reminds me of - my friend and his ma, they go to this little church in the neighborhood. It's pretty small, but the priest there is real nice, I guess. Whenever they move they try and stay close to it. I go to services sometimes with them. Went a few weeks ago, we waited around a bit outside while Missus Rogers - that's my friend's ma - while she was in confession. It reminds me of that."

"This is your friend Steve?" Michael asks, still smiling. Bucky pushes at him with a shoulder, rocking Michael back on his heels.

"I have other friends," Bucky informs him. "Lots of other friends."

"I know," Michael says, and steps closer, into Bucky's space. Hands still in his pockets. "We're friends, aren't we, James?"

"Sure," Bucky says, and grins when Michael's eyes dart down to his mouth. "Sure, we're friends." 

He'd bruised a little, last night, around the mouth and on the backs of his thighs, and even though they'd faded by morning, when Michael had rolled him over onto his belly (still mostly asleep) and licked and fingered him loose enough to fuck, he still feels them a little. The same way the sex lingers, in the faint sweat he can smell on himself, the way he'd been pressed flat into Michael's satin sheets, the soreness on the swell of his ass where Michael's sharp hipbones had ground. The stretch of his skin where Michael had spread him wide, holding him open enough to see his own cock working in and out of Bucky's hole.

"So how did it make you feel?"

Bucky jolts back to earth. He scrubs a hand over his face, like he could rub the blush off his cheeks. Michael's looking at him, expectantly. "What do you mean?" Bucky asks, frowning. It's not the sort of question he gets asked too often. 

"The church," Michael adds, and takes a step back, nodding at the painting. "Tell me how it made you feel."

"It was the first nice day we had," Bucky says, and looks back over at the painting, tracing over the stippled lines of the church with his eyes. "The first day that really felt like spring. It was late enough after Mass that everyone else had left, so it was just me and my friend waiting around. There's a nice little grassy area outside with a couple stone benches, and we were sitting on those."

Michael nods, patient like only teachers are, waiting for you to arrive at the answer, so Bucky keeps going. "Just sitting," he says. "And it got real quiet, like it was just the two of us left in Brooklyn. The whole world had fallen away. It was so quiet you could hear the wind in the grass. I felt - peaceful, and warm. Like we could sit there forever and listen to the wind."

"That's lovely," Michael says, after a moment. "You paint quite a picture, James."

"Yeah," Bucky mumbles, and puts his hands back in his pockets, abruptly embarrassed. Michael's give him some poetry books, some Classics he said, and they make him feel like his skull's been peeled open. He's never heard anyone speak like that in his life but these days he hungers for it, all the time.

"Monet painted twenty of these," Michael says softly, looking back to the painting. "In different seasons and times of day. One cathedral, a hundred different evocations. When they were first exhibited, they were quite scandalous, you know. People thought his work was crude and unfinished. But he changed the way that people saw painting, how we see art today."

"How do you mean?" Bucky says, and laughs a little. "Nobody paints like this anymore. It's old fashioned."

"Old fashioned," Michael repeats, eyebrows raised. He turns and looks out across the gallery, and nods back the way they came. "How did those make you feel?"

Bucky shrugs. "Not much, I imagine," Michael says, with a knowing smile. "We just walked through four hundred years of European art. Rembrandt, Vermeer, Michelangelo - the best the world could offer for _four hundred years_ , and it makes you feel - _not much_."

Bucky closes his mouth and turns away, something squeezing in his chest, but Michael catches his arm. "My darling," he says softly, and holds Bucky's chin when he tries to pull back. His thumb grazes the bottom of Bucky's lip, just a touch, and Bucky's breath catches. "It's not an insult. What is there for you to appreciate? A bunch of pretty paintings, sure, but why do we put them in a room and say they're important?"

"Art _is_ important," Bucky answers, a little unwillingly. "Art shows us who we are."

Michael grins, bright and beautiful. "Exactly," he says. "James, today my favorite painting is that Caravaggio that we passed a few rooms back. It's a beautiful painting, and it's full of clever little details to tell you why it was painted, and what was meant by it. But I don't love it because I love allegories about music, I love it because the boy in the painting looks like you, and it makes me happy to look at it, just as it makes me happy to look at you."

Bucky huffs, pleased, even if his ego still feels a little bruised by that _not much_. "You're saying Monet made art personal," he says, feeling around the idea like he might a black eye, tender and interesting. 

Michael hums, noncommittal. "The Impressionists - they moved painting out from the studio and into people's real lives. What's captured is a _moment_ \- maybe no more than the quality of light against the facade of a church. Suddenly, art could be the swirl of a woman's skirt, or a wave crashing against a cliff, everything beautiful about life in all its imperfect brush strokes. The way that life _is_ , how it makes us feel."

Bucky casts an eye around the rest of the gallery. Not much else is appealing, at least at first: soft landscapes full of gently blowing trees he doesn't know the name of. Waves crashing on a shore completely devoid of bathers or a boardwalk or carnival lights. Women in long white dresses chasing children in straw hats across wide open fields, or lounging serenely on dappled grass. Not much that looked like Brooklyn there, but maybe - 

The gentle arch of a bridge over water, like the cast iron bridge in Prospect Park, where he's stood and helped his sisters throw bread to the turtles. Or a street scene of serious looking men in black coats, gathered in the evening light after being released from Shabbos. Or a girl with a fan, hip cocked out, elbows akimbo, caught mid breath as she shouts in Spanish to her brothers.

"All these painters today, who paint a lot of squares and call it a nude woman, they stand on the shoulders of giants like these," Michael says, satisfied, and Bucky laughs.

"I like those too," he says. "They're - they're honest. They turn me on."

"Do they now," Michael says, his eyebrows arching.

"Aww, that's not what I mean," Bucky protests, even though maybe he does, a little, or maybe it's just hours of listening to Steve and his friends talk about the breakdown of the old guard and the old ways, and the crush and joy of industry and labor, the razor edge they all seem to live their lives at. Those cubes and angles and dripping unreality always make him feel jangly inside, like he's smoked too many cigarettes and stayed up until dawn, racing Steve to the bottom of a bottle.

A touch to the small of his back startles him. "Stop it," he says, although he can't quite keep the laughter out of his voice. "Someone'll see."

"Who's going to see?" Michael demands, and the hand follows as Bucky tries to twist away, sneaking two fingers up the vent at the back of his jacket, stroking as soft and obvious as if they were still lying in bed together.

He doesn't have to look around to answer, so he doesn't. They've been alone for hours. 

"No one," Bucky allows, and bites his lip. There's sunshine coming in from the clear glass ceilings, high over their heads, and it's warm on his shoulders and on Michael's face. Michael holds his eyes, his mouth twisting like he's trying to hold back a grin, and tugs him closer - winding both hands up underneath his jacket, close enough that Bucky can smell the pomade in his hair.

"No one," Michael says, low and purposeful, and sways his hips from side to side, and Bucky sways with him. His hand goes automatically to Michael's waist, allowing Michael to lead him _step-two-three_ across the marbled floor.

It's strange to feel the sunshine on his shoulders even as his ears strain, listening for the footsteps of every absent guard. Michael is a solid warmth against him as they dance, tucking Bucky close against his body so he can murmur in Bucky's ear. 

"I am determined to unbare this broad breast of mine," Michael tells him, "I have long enough stifled and choked. I will plant companionship as thick as trees along all the rivers of America, and along the shores of the Great Lakes, and all over the prairies."

Bucky kisses him, to shut him up and because it's overwhelming, the words a tickle in his ear and his heart. "I will make inseparable cities with their arms around each other's necks, by the love of comrades," Michael says into his mouth, and Bucky stops kissing him to burst out laughing, the word so unexpected and sweet in Michael's voice, so different than the fervor he usually hears it with.

He's steered, carefully, into the corner of the room, angled away from the open doorways leading back towards marble statues and allegories, tucked between a pastoral scene and the small bronze figure of a ballet dancer, tall enough on her pedestal that she could almost look him in the eyes. There, Michael kisses him until they're both breathless, taking his time with it the way he always seems to, so different than the boys Bucky's own age. Even here, he's patient, still whispering poetry in between bites to Bucky's throat, unbothered by Bucky clutching at his suspenders, trying to draw him close.

"I hear it was charged against me that I sought to destroy institutions," Michael says, so casual that he might as well be asking Bucky to hand him his hat, "but really I am neither for nor against institutions." Between them, Bucky can feel Michael's hands skimming along his waist, those clever fingers nearly undoing the buttons of his trousers. "What have I in common with them? Or with the destruction of them?"

"Desecration, maybe," Bucky manages, as Michael pulls his cock out, bares him for all the painted people to see. They both look down at it, at Michael's hand teasing along the length of him, the hair around it turned almost red in the morning sun. 

"James," Michael chides, and adjusts his grip just under the head of Bucky's cock, giving it a long, agonizing stroke that sends him panting up on his toes. "Isn't this also art?"

He tugs his trousers up with his free hand and sinks to his knees, heedless to the possibility of dirt on his beautiful suit. He kisses Bucky's cock the same way he'd kissed Bucky's mouth: soft, wet, just the gentle swipe of his tongue across the head, teasing. Bucky stuffs the sleeve of his jacket into his mouth. It's wouldn't be enough to muffle him but it's enough to bite down on, hard, his teeth bared and pressed into the soft skin of his own wrist. He keeps his eyes open - too afraid not to, to trust that the guards will stay away just a little longer - even as Michael sucks just the head into his mouth, the flat of his tongue rubbing over the slit, his hand working the rest of Bucky's cock.

It feels so _good_ , every time, so much better than the boys he's had in Brooklyn, and when it's his turn he'll copy every bit of it eagerly; he'll be good too. 

Two of Michael's fingers stroke down under the heavy weight of his balls, sliding up and circling around Bucky's hole, wet with Michael's spit. He's looking up, waiting to catch Bucky's eye, and Bucky nods, spreads his legs a little so Michael has enough room to slip one finger inside him. It burns a little, nothing anywhere near real pain, just that beautiful soreness of fucking and sucking that gets him hot. The first time he spent the night at Michael's he'd holed up in the bath almost as soon as he'd gotten back to Brooklyn, fucking himself on three of his fingers to the memory of it, biting his lips ragged to keep quiet.

Bucky likes to talk when he fucks, always has, and it's hard not to now, even though his heart's pounding just as much over the danger of discovery as the suckjob itself. If they were in Michael's apartment he'd be begging for it: _Please, put it in me, **fuck** , come on, it's not gonna hurt me, I **want** it to hurt._

There's two fingers in his ass now, and Michael's got almost all of Bucky's cock down his throat, more than Bucky ever manages even though he's bigger there than Michael is. He feels lit up, pushed out beyond words or shame as he scrabbles his fingernails along the wall and jams his wrist between his teeth to keep from crying out. He knows Michael's looking up him, can feel it in the angle of his throat as he slides his mouth up and down the wet length of Bucky's cock. His fingers in counterpoint, buried deep inside of Bucky, hardly moving at all except to rub over that spot Michael taught him to find, driving him closer and closer over the edge.

When he tips over it _hurts_ , like something's being torn out of him, hips jerking, eyes squeezing tightly closed. Only the faintest "Sssssssssssttte," hissing out from behind his teeth. Letting the wall take his weight, after it crashes through him. Through slitted eyes he can see the ballerina, her impassive profile, the empty doorways to other galleries. He allows Michael to turn him around, one hand between Bucky's forehead and the wall, the other steadying himself as he replaces his fingers with his cock.

And there's the burn Bucky will jerk off to later, that sweet edge of real pain, his legs spread as wide as he can with his pants still up around his knees. Michael fucks him unceremoniously, quick little jerks of his hips, chasing his own orgasm. And this, too, feels good - being used, unresistingly. 

It's only a minute before Michael's stifling his own groan into Bucky's shoulder, thrusting hard enough to drive Bucky up onto his toes. And then an endless moment where they breathe, deep, together, the back of Michael's hand a soft support against his forehead, the other stroking absently over his belly.

"Mother Mary," Michael whispers, his face still pressed into Bucky's shoulder. "You make me feel young again."

They put themselves back together. Michael's wristwatch informs them that the museum will be opening any minute. Far off, echoing faint against the walls, they can hear the footsteps of an approaching guard. Michael kisses him one last time, hard on the mouth. Bucky can taste his own jizz on Michael's tongue. Smell the sweet, perfumey oil Michael used to fuck him this morning on Michael's fingers. He can feel Michael's jizz slipping out of his hole and he clenches around it, unconsciously. 

They roam the museum for another hour or so, watching the galleries fill with tourists and ambivalent children. Bucky detours to the first bathroom he can find to clean himself up a bit, stuff some tissue down into the seat of his underwear in case he keeps dripping. There's a deep bruise forming on his wrist, a clear half moon of purpling teeth marks. Every time Michael catches his eye they both start laughing like schoolboys. 

Michael treats him to a coffee from a cart at the bottom of the Museum steps, and they sit for a little while in silence watching the morning sun play over the grand facade of 5th Avenue. There are crowds all around them, even this early in the day, and it couldn't be further away from a little churchyard in Brooklyn but - it's nice. 

"When will I see you again?" Michael asks, eventually. 

Bucky hums a little in his throat, considering. "I'm seeing Johnny and Arno on Wednesday, after work," he says, finally. "You think you can get us into the Ariston again?"

Michael leans into him, just barely, and Bucky imagines it as a kiss, soft against his lips. "I'll get you anywhere you like," he answers, looking out over all the people, swarming over their steps to get into the museum. "Just promise I can have you first."

He pulls a gold cigarette case out of his pocket and flips it open, offering it up between them. "Sure," Bucky says, and lights it using the matches from his own pocket. 

He walks up to 86th to catch an express train back to Brooklyn. He flips Michael's cigarette between his fingers, drawing deep lungfuls of smooth, sweet tasting smoke. It wakes him up better than the coffee did, dark and muddy and no better than it oughta be, bought from a cart. He watches well dressed men and women pass him by, an eye on the cut of a suit or the swirl of a skirt, letting his mind's eye turn them into broad, unhidden brush strokes. He hums a little, as he walks.  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

>   
>  Ahhhhhhhhh **covers face in hands** so this is the most self-indulgent thing ever and I have a terrible, terrible confession. 
> 
> I hate Impressionism so, so much. I do however love talking about art. I will bust through the wall like a Kool Aid man with opinions about art so uh, hopefully people are into that. This is hopefully the first of many self indulgent stories about Steve and Bucky in the New York art scene (and gay scene) of the late 1930's. Mad props to stoatsandwich, for being a [total fucking enabler](http://stoatsandwich.tumblr.com/tagged/gay-new-york) and inspiring the whole thing. Your turn, bro.
> 
> If anyone is skeptical about the premise, I actually did this a while back - got into the Met a few hours before opening, and wandered around for a few hours with a personal tour guide. Hands down one of the coolest things I've ever done.
> 
> Obviously I researched:  
> [Rouen Cathedral: The Portal (Sunlight), 1894](http://www.metmuseum.org/toah/works-of-art/30.95.250)  
> [School Trips at the Met](http://www.metmuseum.org/about-the-museum/museum-departments/office-of-the-director/digital-media-department/digital-underground/posts/2013/digital-archives/slideshow)  
> [Plaster casts at the Met](http://www.plastercastcollection.org/en/database.php?d=lire&id=172).  
> There is a very small anachronism in this story. If anybody guesses what it is, we'll probably have to get married.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Portal (Sunlight), 1894](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3902482) by [sallysparrow017](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallysparrow017/pseuds/sallysparrow017)




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